[Zadius]: 752.Stories.The Greatswords Of Tir-Amion

Ezlar looked up at the Citadel Guard, assembled along the upper ramparts of the city walls and smiled. They were perfoming their midday drill, as regular as the marble-faced clock mounted into the pearlescent lintle above the only gateway into the city. As he passed under the ancient entrance into his homeland's beloved capital, he was greeted by a massive uproar of voices filling the streets. Tir-Amion's citizens were cheery and jubilant, despite the latest bad turn in their defence against the attacks of their aggressive neighbours, the people of Etruscha. A peasant woman bowed in greeting as he passed her, and gave him his people's customary gift of welcoming - a piece of bread and a handful of salt. He nodded in thanks, sprinkled a portion of the salt over the bread before casting the remainder over his shoulder as was their tradition and began to chew thoughtfully on it as he continued along the main paved street that led up to the actual citadel and palace.

The citadel was built into the side of Mount Amion, a colossal peak that was commonly thought to be the tallest in the world. According to the official archive in Hallencar the citadel had been carved out of the very mountain itself, in an age where instead that industrious city had been their capital. It had taken almost 130 years to finish, and yet still stood strong and tall almost 1100 years after it's completion. It was a testament to the skill and craftmanship of his people, that despite it's age and weather-worn appearance the original patterning of the stonework was still clearly visible from a distance of several miles. The entire structure had been shaped to resemble a massive feline head jutting out of the mountain, with the imperial palace located firmly within it's jaws. There were some arguments, even among his own troops as to which of the great cats it was intended to be. Many believed it was a lionesses' head, the symbol of their benevolent ruler and her family, the beautiful Empress Nalvara.

Ezlar knew differently, however. Firstly, when it had been constructed the current imperial family were simply mid-level nobility, and had no influence whatsoever over the building of the glorious, majestic structure. Secondly, from his study of the city's original maps and blueprints he had taken from the Hallencar archive he knew that it had really been constructed to mimic the symbol of the then-Emperor's family emblem - a Jaguar. As this thought crossed his mind his thumb automatically rubbed across the index finger of his right hand, feeling the very same Jaguar's head that the citadel had been modelled on engraved into the perfectly round Obsidian stone mounted into the Gold ring he had worn since his father died. How long had his family been served, before they became the ones to give service? The archive couldn't answer that... though from the historians and other scholars he had consulted regarding the matter it was apparent that his family had ruled the people of Veldorad for at least a thousand years.

As his thoughts wandered back to his discoveries within the archive once more, a brief image of that very building crumbling to rubble and ruin as it was struck by trebuchet and mangonel fire darted through his mind. Nariama Etrusch, the King and general of the Etruschan army he had last faced at that unfortunate city had been furious that it was damaged, let alone destroyed and as a result had executed all of his siege engineers in charge of firing all his stone-throwing devices. That event had pleased Ezlar in two different ways, the first being that when he next faced their cruel and ruthless forces he was hoping the crews manning the mango's and treb's would be inexperienced, and probably miss with their first half dozen or so barrages and therefore waste ammo. The second reason it had pleased him was also confirmed when Nariama's army delayed in pursuing his retreating forces and instead according to his rearguard scouts, had begun to mount a search of the archive's ruins.

Until then he had persistently been confused by Nariama's swift movement on Hallencar. The majority of his nation's armed forces had been garrisoned there, including his own Greatswords regiment, preparing to mount a counter-attack in the Etruschan flank when they bypassed them and struck at Tir-Amion. At that point the capital had possessed less than 1200 troops, including the 500-strong Citadel Guard and the famous "Imperial Martyrs" regiment, the Empress' personal bodyguards. It would have been an easy target to strike, and Ezlar would have been surprised if despite it's massive walls and defensible position it had held for anymore than three days. However, now with what remained of the Hallencar defenders flooding into the last great city left in their homeland it would be protected by a force of almost 20000 men-at-arms, as well as however many of it's citizenship volunteered to form a militia. But then Nariama had stopped in his tracks, and become enraged by the destruction of his nation's historical archive. He had even started to rummage through the rubble of it, for what specifically though?

Ezlar patted his napsack, and as he felt the documents inside he couldn't control the huge grin that spread across his face. He was almost at the guardhouse that permitted access to the citadel and was beginning to contemplate how he should explain what he'd discovered when he presented them to the Empress and her ruling council. He was almost certain that he possessed exactly what the Etruschans were looking for. Indeed, he had ransacked the archive for endless hours himself to find what he now kept guarded with his life, but for the completely opposite reason. He had stored safely in his napsack the maps and blueprints of Tir-Amion, which he had originally traced to study and develop an optimum strategy of defence for the city. However, upon fully viewing them he had learned a long-lost secret, that could of ruined any defence of the city anyway. Previous to this he had already considered how invaluable they would be to Nariama in preparing his own plans of attack on Tir-Amion, but once he had made this discovery he vowed to keep the documents with him at all times, and in the unfortunate event he was captured during the assault on the city he would have burned them.

He quickened his pace as he crossed the white, shining marble bridge over the bright, clear stream a couple of feet broad that linked the city proper with the short, wide stretch of public garden that divided the city from the citadel and palace beyond. As he passed through the garden he swiftly snatched a pear from the bough of a nearby tree without stopping as usual to admire it's abundant fruit and the ecstatic citizens laying throughout the grass enjoying the crops and glorious sunshine. He began to munch eagerly on it's sweet, yet bitter flesh as he crossed the jet-black bridge and the second stream the other side of the luscious greenery to finally reach the guardhouse.

The guardhouse itself had been constructed into the citadel wall, a beautiful sheet of polished, concave silver that had been designed to reflect as much sunlight as possible off of the citadel and down into the public garden. He guessed he had just missed it's daily "flash point", the time at around midday where on a daily basis the entire fortification appeared to transform into a wall of light, reflecting down on the entire patch of greenery. It was at this point the daily congregation of pilgrims to the city would bow down, bathing in the wondrous sunshine and giving praise to the city's patron God, Amon. On days when the sun was not shining, they would gather fruit and crops from the area and take them as an offering to the temple in the centre of the city.

Above the guardhouse there were four watchtowers, of equal height and dimension that gave the archers and riflemen stationed within a good clear view of the majority of the city and the outer courtyards of the citadel. Either side of these four there was a larger, taller tower that was manned by riflemen only, and also included an observer with a telescope who kept a watch towards the towns such as Verdegill and Taschenbraum a few miles outside of the city walls. These six towers, combined with the citadel wall formed the teeth and lower jaw of the feline head that was the citadel and palace. From so close it was almost unnoticeable, but as he had approached the city as always he had been filled with a huge sense of pride over the appearance of this magnificent structure.

He rapped his knuckles on the silver door of the guardhouse, and while he waited for an answer gazed into it's lustrous mirror finish. The man that looked back was irrevocably altered since the beginning of the war with Etruscha. While it was still his bright green eyes that stared back at him, his hair was no longer short, smart or clean as it had always been. Instead, it was a brown, wavy, shoulder-length mess that looked as though it hadn't been washed for weeks. He also had a rather ugly set of bushy sideburns and an impressive start to an unkept beard, rather than his usual clean-shaven appearance that highlighted his apparent youth. Although he believed he was stood perfectly upright, his usually tall frame seemed crooked and short, though he thought perhaps it was the downward curvature of the door that caused this illusion. As well as this, there was a nasty looking scab across the bridge of his nose, which had also been broken when he had been smashed in the face with a shield during the battle at Gaunt's Verge. Even his skin seemed to have aged terribly within a few weeks, as he noticed the wrinkles starting to develop around his eyes and across his forehead. He no longer appeared to be a man in his mid to late forties, instead every one of his sixty-two years stood in the mirrored surface for all to see. He was ashamed to be presenting himself to the Empress like this, but he felt that what he had to say could not wait any longer. As his hand reached up to knock on the door again, an eye appeared at the peephole before quickly disappearing, and the locks within the door's frame began to be undone. Ezlar took a pace back as the door swung open outwards and a young, short and stocky lieutenant of the Citadel Guard stepped out and greeted him.

"Hail! General Elderast, It is a pleasure to aknowledge your safe return to our fair city. Please step right in, and relax while you await a member of Her Imperial Majesty's personal regiment to escort you to her court." The young soldier said as he bowed and gestured for Ezlar to enter the guardhouse.

General Elderast, as he was officially refered to nodded in gratitude, and as he passed into the building replied. "I would have happily returned to the city unsafe and dead, had it been triumphant and victorious."

"Surely yourself and General Telstrith will better serve Her Imperial Majesty alive in leading the defence of..." The lieutenant continued optimistically as he followed Ezlar in.

The young man's voice trailed off though and his diminished stature appeared to shrink even more as Ezlar scowled and interrupted. "No, Mazinor has passed on... It was his sacrifice that allowed those of us who survived to escape with our lives."

The Citadel Guardsman's eyes widened and he began to speak again, in little more than a hoarse whisper. "Forgive my presumptuousness, I did not realize that the general had fallen."

Ezlar put his arm around the man's shoulders and shook him affectionately as he spoke. "Then there is nothing to forgive. Continue as you were with your duties, I'm sure I can occupy myself here while I wait for another dead man."

The guardsman smiled, and left Ezlar to continue stirring a pot cooking over the half dozen or so burning logs stacked in the soot-covered fireplace located in the guardhouse's Eastern wall. As he stood there aggressively stirring whatever was boiling in the pot Ezlar saw the young lieutenant mutter to himself "dead men" and begin to descend into a fit of chuckles. It was an old joke among the upper ranks, a reference to the name of the Empress' personal regiment but apparently one this lieutenant had either never heard before, or still found highly amusing. Ezlar took pleasure in the fact that he had managed to brighten up this polite and obedient soldier's otherwise dull and repetitive day, and took a seat upon one of the three stools placed around a low, hexagonal table roughly in the centre of the room. Based on the guardsman's sudden rush over to him to collect most of the items arranged on the table in front of this place he supposed he had stolen his seat, but that was one of the priveleges of rank.

He also noticed however, the loaf of thick, crusty bread and the block of well matured cheese that the guardsman had failed to remove from his reach, and drawing his sharpened buckle-knife from inside the strap of his knapsack he contented himself with a generous slice of the loaf, and a wickedly carved, cheekily thick slab of the cheese. As he placed the gorgeous smelling dairy product onto the bread and prepared to take a bite of the mouth watering combination, he heard a voice and footsteps descending the stairs from one of the towers above. The guardhouse was rather strategically constructed, so as there was a stone staircase leading upward from every corner of the room - each one led to a different one of the four watchtowers above, and thus allowed their entire garrison to encircle and trap anyone who was wrongly permitted or forced entry into the building. The acoustics within the room were disorientating, but Ezlar was almost certain the voice was emanating from the stairs in the South-East corner of the room, the set which led to the Eastern-most tower.

Ezlar was facing away from that staircase, but he didn't need to turn around to realise who it was - he recognised his voice. It was Deraenor, a captain of the Citadel Guard whom he had never got on well with. They had both requested to join the Greatswords in the same year, but whereas Ezlar had shined and proven himself worthy to join their famous ranks, Deraenor had failed despite being over twenty years younger than himself. Although he could of reapplied only a year later, he had resented the regiment ever since and instead succeeded in joining the 'Guard. Ezlar pulled his deck of cards, his dice and his tobacco pouch from the inner pocket of his greatcoat, and proceeded to deal a game of swords while he listened to the captain complaining to his lieutenant about his food not being ready, before he must of turned towards the table and suddenly realised they had an unwelcome visitor.

"Humph. You... I thought you'd finally died at Hallencar. What's your regiment's motto, 'Fall At The Last, Stand To The Last?' A fine example of that you've shown eh? I'm sure her majesty will be very impressed at your loss of our last other city!" Deraenor exclaimed as he sneered at Ezlar, and pulled up a stool next to him at the table. "What's your excuse this time, you were too busy stuffing your face and didn't realise the wall had been breached..? Hey, that's my loaf!" Deraenor tried to snatch the bread and cheese from Ezlar's hand as he realised the general was consuming part of his lunch, but alas too late as Ezlar shoved the last of it into his mouth and chewed on it enthusiastically, gladly realising who's provisions he had helped himself to.

"And isn't your regiment's motto 'Defence Above All Else?' Hallencar was lost, my new objective was to reinforce Tir-Amion as well as possible." Ezlar replied as he rolled one of his die, and subsequently drew three cards from his deck. He placed down the prince of coins with the seven of wands on top of his already dealt fallback hand to end his turn.

Deraenor, as always looking for a chance to outdo Ezlar at something plucked up a die himself and began his own turn as he enquired. "So where are the rest of the reinforcements? I've already taken the hourly reports from the observers, and there aren't any troop movements outside the city." He was fortunate enough to take four cards, and laid down the knight of cups with the nine of wands as a fickle smile spread across his lips. "I've slayed your prince." he cried jubilantly as he removed it from above Ezlar's fallback hand.

Ezlar rolled his own die again, this time managing to take four cards himself. He followed on by placing the queen of cups upon the table, with the nine of cups as well. "Broken swords." He stated as he removed both nines and put them to one side. "The reinforcements are fortifying Verdegill, then Taschenbraum as they approach the city, as well as recruiting militia. Your turn."

Once again Deraenor rolled his die, this time drawing only a single card. He subsequently placed the eight of coins on his knight to replace his previous weapon and as Ezlar's queen was unarmed turned her 90 degrees to represent that she had been wounded. He then drawled on. "Ha, militia... what good will they be? we need rifles and heavy horse! A cavalry charge before they can even fire their mangonels... that would prevent any assault. If only our emissaries in Aviemore or Loronia would return with their Knightlords, or Gunswords!!!" He cried.

Ezlar picked up his pouch, and interrupted their impromptu game by rolling a smoke. He produced from his trousers a Loronian everlasting shrike, sparked it against his thumbnail and lit his roll-up before blowing it out and returning it to his pocket. He inhaled deeply and purposely blew the smoke out in the face of his unfriendly comrade-at-arms who he knew to have never smoked in his life, before responding. "We cannot rely on foreign assistance, our allies will be more interested in preparing their own forces to defend against a possible Etruschan strike if we fall completely." He then proceeded to take his turn drawing a single card, putting down the prince of cups as his next player, followed by the ace of swords as his queen's new weapon. He smiled confidently, and simply stated. "A killer card... Your knights dead." Before removing his ace and Deraenor's knight from on top of his fallback hand and placing them with the pair of nines, his own prince and seven that had already been discarded.

Deraenor seemed extremely put out by Ezlar's apparent ace up his sleeve, a card that negates the wound value of your player and simply kills them outright. He rolled his die silently praying for a high score so as to draw as many cards as he could, but to no avail as he ended up taking a measly two, before placing his hand face up on the table. He snorted as he sulkily said. "I don't have any more players, I have to fall back." He then turned over the three cards that made up his fallback hand and revealed the five of coins, along with the eight and nine of swords. He used the five to slay Ezlar's again unarmed queen, followed by the eight to kill off his second prince, leaving him with his highest available card. "Nine to beat." He said dryly, trying to anticipate what Ezlar held in his own hand of two remaining cards.

Ezlar's face appeared downcast and saddened apparently beaten by a mere nine-high, and Deraenor jumped up from the table triumphantly and struck his fist up into the air. At that moment Ezlar revealed a grin fit for a jester, and placed his last couple of cards down on the table. They were both tens, of swords and wands. Deraenor's jaw dropped wide open simultaneously to his backside returning to the stool, and he gave Ezlar a look of deep hate as he spat. "You could of used both of those against my knight! Why would you waste an ace...?" A look of pure exasperation and defeat covered his face, before he got back up and stormed towards the set of stairs opposite the ones he had first come down. He turned around as his foot reached the first step and called to his lieutenant, who had been watching the game intently as he finished preparing his captain's meal. "You there. Have my food ready by the time I complete my inspection of the Western-most tower, and if the Imperial Martyr's haven't come to escort our unwanted visitor by the time you've finish preparing it, go and bloody well get them!" With that he rushed up the steps, complaining to himself about the garrison of the tower and hoping he could discipline some of them.

Ezlar finished his smoke before picking up his pouch and what was left of the loaf of bread, pocketing both. Standing up, he walked over to the lieutenant and asked. "Was it really wasted if it effected him that badly?" He winked before peering into the stewpot, and mischeviously enquired. "Is anyone else having any of that?"

"Oh no sir, certainly not. It's the captain's personal recipe, he makes it all himself, I just have to keep stirring it so it doesn't burn while he performs the inspections. You must have really annoyed him actually, because he's already completed them and the garrison commander of the Western-most tower is his superior, Major Gronholm. He won't be happy at having two inspections in less than an hour!" The lieutenant replied as he started to giggle.

"Hmm, good." Ezlar said as he dropped his roll-up end into the pot. "Tell him I added my own special ingredient as gratitude for the bread." As he finished saying this the lieutenant broke down into a fit of laughter, and the two member's of the Imperial Martyrs who had just entered from the door opposite the one Ezlar had come in by stared at him with quizzical looks on their faces.

"General, Her Imperial Majesty awaits your presence. Please follow us."